


andante (spheres of love and influence)

by weatheredlaw



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And at the end, the music swells – and though she did not think of it, did not compose it or suggest its creation – the perfection of its harmony, the quiet movement of the piece, is suddenly, accurately, and precisely how she feels about the dwarf gripping her hand, staring at her rapidly reddening cheeks, and pulling her away from the crowded hall, into the cool air of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cassandra does not think there should be so many holidays in a year. She struggles to remember precisely how she’d gone about acquiring Varric’s Satinalia gift – a new set of earrings, to start, with leather bound books designed for traveling, an enchanted well of ink that never quite seemed to run dry, and a very expensive bottle of whiskey, brewed and bottled in Denerim. It had been quite the ordeal, and still, she had been _bested._ Defeated in the art of amorous gift giving by her beloved, who not only did better than she, but also managed to undress her in record time.

She had woken that morning to find their now shared bed empty, save for herself, and a note on the pillow telling her where to go. He’d led her on a scavenger hunt, and though Cassandra would have told anyone bold enough to ask some months before that she could not be swept off her feet by a man who would subject her to such antics, she found then that as she uncovered each gift, her heart grew only warmer toward him.

Varric had met her on the hill just outside Skyhold, relieving her of her burden – chocolates, from her favorite sweet shop in Val Royeaux, along with several copies of her favorite books signed by their authors, a tea from her homeland so strong it was said to cure infertility, a new pair of boots with steel toes and elegantly designed clasps, and a small, incredibly expensive pin for her hair. Then he kissed her, fervently, and would have undressed her right there and then if she did not insist they return to their room.

She does not include their brisk walk back in the amount of time it took him to remove her clothes that day.

But, still, she struggles to remember how many weeks it’s been since Satinalia. And now, such random days as this, a _Marcher_ holiday, enforced by the Inquisitor, who could not be bothered to explain to her how it truly worked. Maxwell Trevelyan was hardly thorough when it came to giving Cassandra details. He preferred to wing it, put his complete faith in her, and tell everyone he had no clue what he was doing from the very start – an entirely and completely true statement.

“It’s called Valentine’s Day,” he’d told her, “And it is a day of love.”

That had been the extent of his explanation, but, later, she’d managed to pry a bit more information from Varric, just before he fell asleep.

Mother Valentine had been adored by the people of whatever town or village the local rumor seemed to originate in. She oversaw the marriages of generations of families, delivered hundreds of their children, and read their dying rites before they passed on from this world to the next. Supposedly, a cruel king or someone of great power imposed a law that women of a certain age in whichever village who did not marry by the fourteenth of that month would become wives of the king. Mother Valentine quickly married all the unmarried girls in the village to young bachelor’s, and by the grace of the Maker and Mother Valentine herself, each found they were in perfect love with their partner.

“It is a weak tale,” she’d murmured.

“Sweet shops use it to sell chocolates,” he’d said quietly, and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t think on it, Seeker.”

 

* * *

 

It is only a few days after that Cassandra realizes it is something she _should_ think on.

“Did he tell you it wasn’t important?” Dorian asks, watching her over the rim of his cup. “You know we celebrate it in Tevinter, too. Different story and such, but there’s a Father Valentine. It’s all very festive.”

“How _wonderful_ ,” she mutters, and shoves potatoes into her mouth.

“Will you be forcing it on everyone?” Dorian asks, leaning into the Inquisitor. Cassandra looks up sharply.

“I should think not,” Maxwell says, frowning at a handful of papers Josephine had deposited earlier in his lap that morning. “It was always rather private in my family. Big to-do about it all in Kirkwall, though. Or so I’ve heard.”

“What…what do you mean?” Cassandra asks.

“They take the day off, throw large parties and such. Lots of people get married on that day.” He looks up. “I wonder if he’ll propose.”

Dorian _chokes_ and _spits_ his juice all over Bull, who has been sitting quietly across from him and next to Cassandra all morning. The Qunari wipes the spittle from his face and chest and looks down at Cassandra.

“He went shopping in Val Royeaux last Tuesday,” he says, before getting up to get more pork.


	2. Chapter 2

He finds her pacing in the small space of their room, with a sort of frantic speed that implies he could have done something wrong. Quickly, he recovers his memories from the last few days, before saying her name. “Seeker?”

She turns on him. “You did not _tell_ me that this…this _holiday_ was so important in Kirkwall!”

Ah. Something he said, then.

“It’s important in Kirkwall, Seeker. But it’s not all that important to me.”

She blinks. “It isn’t.”

“Not…particularly.”

Her expression softens into precisely the one he adores so much – the one that he had first fallen in love with. “I understand,” she says quietly, and goes to help him take off his duster. “A spoiled holiday for you then, my love.”

“Something like that.” Varric groans with relief as she runs her hands over his shoulders, massaging the muscles there and kissing his neck. “Just…never got around to having a Valentine.”

“Is that what it’s called? The person you love on that day?”

“Mmhm.”

She laughs. “So I am your Valentine, then.”

Varric shrugs. “I suppose. But it’s not important, Seeker.”

Cassandra pulls back, with the sort of stiffness that tells him he’s said the wrong thing –

Again.

“I will decide what is and is not important to me,” she says. “But,” she adds, “if you would prefer the holiday pass without notice, that is quite alright with me, my love.”

“Yeah.” Varric turns and pulls her into his arms again, not so sure of himself anymore. “I think that’s what I’d like.”

 

* * *

 

He sleeps poorly, which is unusual these days. Before they shared the same bed, Varric found he woke often, wondering if those were the spaces where dreams should belong. Now, he sleeps through the night, the warmth and weight of her beside him enough to keep him drawn tight to this world. Tonight, that is not enough. He sleeps in fits and starts, waking between one breath and the next, unable to discern the time. Eventually, he sleeps long enough to be woken by the sun coming up over the mountains, and the sounds of Cassandra preparing tea and doing her morning prayer. He pretends to be asleep, so that she might speak a little louder than normal, her hands clasped together before the small hearth in the room, as she burns the smallest bit of incense she believes she can get away with, before the small painting of Andraste he keeps there.

“Bless me through my day, bless me and give me the strength to carry these burdens. Though they are not as great as the ones I have carried for so long, they are no less important. Let my heart be patient and open. Let me love, fully, and accept it gracefully.” She stops. Then: “Watch him, when I cannot. Show him your love when I am unable. Let him never be alone.”

 

* * *

 

The gardens suffered terribly from the snow storm some weeks ago, and the peonies have not quite recovered, nor have the roses. He finds Mother Giselle clucking over them, and thinks he could kill two birds with one stone, really – happy Mother, happy Cassandra. Dorian is holed up in the library, as per usual, and it takes bribery and a small bit of blackmail to convince him to stomp through the snow that has doubled in the last few days to look at _flowers._

“Can you help them out?”

“They’re dying,” he says, rather morosely. “This weather is _foul._ ”

“Couldn’t agree more. Original question still stands.” Varric glances at the decaying petals, and wonders if it’s some kind of broad, awful metaphor.

“I can. When will you need them?”

“You know when.”

“Yes, but _when._ They’ll have to be perfect for that time precisely.”

Varric sighs. “Alright, find. The evening of the fourteenth. Around eight or so.”

“Alright. You will have fresh flowers by then. She’ll enjoy them, I suspect.” Dorian scowls, tripping over a particularly heavy drift of snow. “I hate you, do you know that?”

“Doesn’t the Inquisitor enjoy the roses?” Varric asks, grinning at the mage’s retreating back.

“He will live without them,” Dorian snaps, but Varric suspects the seed has been planted. He checks off _flowers_ under his little mental to-do list, and sets out to accomplish the rest of his tasks.

It should be simple, really. A rather private, moonlit evening in the garden among the freshly fallen snow with bright pink peonies popping among the bushes. She’ll love it, he knows, but it doesn’t feel…complete. The sense that he’s missing something, something rather important, won’t leave him, and he returns to their room to contemplate the situation while she’s away for a few days, wondering precisely what is he needs to make the whole thing _perfect._

The realization hits him during his second day of solitude – it is thrilling and terrifying at once, but Varric suspects that is what a love like this is supposed to do to a man.

Especially on Valentine’s Day.


	3. Chapter 3

Cassandra had known from the beginning that the Inquisitor did not intend to let the holiday pass without notice.

“A party,” she says, looking at the great hall as the preparations are being made. “It is the middle of a war.”

“And what _better_ time for a celebration?” Trevelyan helps shove one of the tables to the far wall and smiles. “There’ll be music and you and Varric can _dance_ —”

She frowns. “Is this your gift to Dorian?”

Maxwell _beams._ “It is. He’s going to love it. Bull’s got him distracted with Varric up in the library for the rest of the day, they’re doing some fake research. Or it’s real, I’ve no idea, Varric thought it up.”

“Of course.” She sighs and looks around. The room is quiet beautiful these days. Perhaps it would be nice to dance on a holiday such as this, pretend she has not a care in the world.

Well, she has some cares, today especially. She must finish her preparations.

Perhaps Varric had said he didn’t care for the day, but Cassandra knew him well enough by now the know he had given in. What she didn’t know was his plan, and so she would have to work around it, carefully, and in her own way.

Varric, assuredly, would have a location. He always did. He would have something beautiful for her, and so, she needs  something beautiful to give in return. It is, however, proving difficult.

She pauses before leaving the hall, turning to the Inquisitor. “What kind of music will there be?”

Maxwell grins. “I am so very glad you asked.”

 

* * *

 

“Another favor?”

Cassandra frowns. “I have not asked you for a favor before.”

Dorian sighs. “Not _you._ The other one. Your other half,” he says, waving his hand. “It doesn’t matter. What would you like me to do?”

“I…I wondered how I might have candles, where the flame does not go out?”

“Oh that _is_ romantic.” He smiles, lifting a candle from the table and doing something remarkable with his hand. “How many would you like?”

“How many would it take to light the gardens?”

Dorian raises a brow. “The gardens, you say?”

“Yes. Around…eight. Tonight.”

“Well. Several dozen, but nothing I can’t manage.” He smiles. “I do _love_ helping the both you.”

“I don’t—”

“Pretend I didn’t say anything,” the mage says quickly. “Just remember that I was the one who _pushed_ , and now look at you both.”

“Yes,” she says dryly. “Wherever would we be without your guiding hand?”

“Lost,” he says. “Now go, they’re coming back.” He pushes her between the shelves, and she steals away down the spiral stairs, listening to the sound of Varric and Bull teasing one another as she goes.

She wonders how long the novelty of his voice will last.

She certainly hopes that it is forever.

 

* * *

 

Dorian is floored by his surprise, and she suspects he will endure merciless teasing for the tears he pretends not to shed. But, she agrees, the night is beautiful, and the music is lovely.

She knows. She had made certain of it.

She and Varric have never danced before this – even at Halamshiral, when things between them were tentative and new. She is certain he does not expect it here, and Cassandra suspects that is why he looks startled when she pulls him away from his chair, and onto the floor as the song begins.

“Seeker—”

“It is Valentine’s Day, my love. I know you were…unsure that you’d want something like this, but I could not let it pass, I’m sorry.”

He snorts. “Should have known better than to try and boss you around.”

She raises a brow. “If you’re so keen on giving me orders, I’m certain something could be arranged.”

“Balls, Seeker, I don’t need the mental image when there’s three hundred people with a perfect view of my—” The song ends, and they return to their seats. Varric shifts uncomfortable for a moment. “Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” he mutters.

Cassandra takes a hearty drink from her goblet.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t know how long the party continues to last. What is clear is it is beginning to draw upon the hour she was promised her flickering candles, and she isn’t quite sure how to remove themselves from the celebration.

“Varric—”

He looks as preoccupied as she, and for the first time, she wonders if she is not the only one with a plot.

“Maybe we should—”

“Shall we drink the night away?” the Inquisitor calls out, and his soldiers cheer. “Shall we find love, even if it is for just one night?”

“Hear, hear!”

“Then let’s! Dance with me, Dorian. It would bring more honor to me than you could _possibly_ imagine.”

Dorian wipes his face on his sleeve. “Yes, alright.”

Cassandra is endeared. And she is entranced by their movement, and the music. It is a grand piece, soft and slow moving, gentle in its approach. She finds that it snags at her, gives her chills and does not seem to want to let go. Others join the Inquisitor and his paramour, and it seems, for just this moment, that nothing else outside these walls truly matters.

At the end, the music swells – and though she did not think of it, did not compose it or suggest its creation – the perfection of its harmony, the quiet movement of the piece, is suddenly, accurately, and precisely how she feels about the dwarf gripping her hand, staring at her rapidly reddening cheeks, and pulling her away from the crowded hall, into the cool air of the night.

“This way,” he says, and tugs her toward the gardens.

“You—”

“I know you’ve been up to something,” he says, rather smugly. “But you’re not the only one.”

She smiles. “I should have known. But what—” Cassandra stops, dropping his hand and bringing her own to her lips. “Oh. _Oh_ , Varric.”

The flowers, rotted just days ago, are in full bloom. Peonies and roses, geraniums and hydrangea – they all grow with strength and might under the moonlight. And scattered at their feet – candles, glowing strongly among the snowfall.

“Wow,” he murmurs, and takes her hand in his again. “Did you—”

“I—”

“Eight o’clock,” someone says behind them. “You both wanted it.”

“Dorian.” Varric grins. “You outdid yourself.”

“I’ll let you have the place, though why you’d want to be subjected to the bleeding _cold_ , I’ve no clue. Darling, did you see them?” He reaches out his hand and the Inquisitor steps into view.

“The flowers or the happy couple?”

“Both, actually.”

Maxwell smiles. “You’ve outdone yourself again. But—” He pulls Dorian back toward the hall. “Do try not to take all the credit. They’ve done a great deal of the work all on their own.”


	4. Chapter 4

“This is lovely, Varric.” She leans against him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I am very impressed.”

“Well, I aim to please.” He tights his grip around her shoulder. It is certainly cold, but Varric doesn’t mind.

His heart beats rapidly in his chest, skin hot under his tunic. He wonders if she notices.

“Seeker?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I…I’d like to—” He huffs. “What I mean to say—”

She sits up straight, frowning. “Are you having _trouble_ with words, Varric?”

“A great deal,” he admits. “You have that effect on me.” He angles himself toward her, and reaches for the little drawstring pouch tucked into his breeches. “I know that there’s a war on, and we’ve got two pretty different futures in front of us. But for everything that’s uncertain about our lives, there’s one things that I know for sure.”

“Varric…”

“I know that I love you.” Here, he slides from the bench, and gets down on one knee. Should have thought about the snow, he thinks, but the look on her face is completely worth it. “And I know that I want to be with you. Not just…not just _with_ you, but in every way.”

“Oh—”

“I’d like to marry you, if that’s alright with you, Cassandra Pentaghast.”

She makes a soft choking sound, just before she throws her arms around his neck.

“ _Yes_ , you fool of a dwarf. Yes I will marry you.”

Varric beams. “You will.”

“Of course I will. I will marry you now, if you want. I will marry you tomorrow, or in a hundred years. It does not matter to me. I will marry you, and love you, for all my days.” She kisses him, soundly. Varric slides the ring over her finger. “It is beautiful.”

“It’s for you.”

“I have no jewelry for you.”

He chuckles. “I’m good on that for now.” Then: “We could, you know. Get married tomorrow.”

She looks up from her ring and smiles. “I am content to wait.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m not.”

“There will be time,” she insists.

“And if there isn’t?” His tone is sharper than he intends, and she grips his hand tight. “I’m sorry, I just…I’ve never _known_ something with this sort of conviction. It was never this way, before. With anything. Not since Hawke and Kirkwall and everything. Even joining this whole thing, I didn’t know what I was getting into. But I know what I’m doing with you. I know what I want.”

Cassandra presses her lips together, and Varric realizes for the first time that she is crying.

He hasn’t seen it before. And it catches him off guard.

“Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. Seeker – _Cassandra._ ” He kisses her cheek. “We don’t have to do anything, I’m not trying to overwhelm you, I—”

She cuts him off, sealing her lips over his, and clasping him to her.

“I will marry you _now_. I said it, did I not?”

Varric’s laugh is weak, even to his own ears. “Seriously?”

Cassandra rests her head on his shoulder. “I am always serious, Varric. You of all people know this.”

He closes his eyes. “Then tomorrow. We’ll…we’ll get married _tomorrow._ ”

“The Inquisitor will be disappointed. You know how he loves to plan for these sorts of things.”

“Then he can worry about all that himself. I only want to be there, with you.”

“And you will, my love.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead. “You certainly will.”


End file.
